Talmar's Song
by Fialleril
Summary: The line between real life and fairy tale is often very thin... Anakin Solo asks his grandfather for a story, and Leia learns the origin of her name. Anakin & Anakin fic. Sequel to Revenant, but can stand alone. AU if you consider the EU canon Complete.
1. Prologue: Secrets

Note: This is a sequel to my story 'Revenant,' but it can easily stand on its own. However, this story is technically AU if you consider the EU canon. For details on my version of the EU, see the prologue of 'Revenant.'

Disclaimer: Most of this is George's. Only the fairy tale is mine...from a certain point of view. ;) 

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**Prologue: Secrets**

It was his ninth birthday, and he couldn't wait for the festivities to be over.

It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying his party. The food was quite good, and his family and all his friends were there, and the new gaming system he'd asked his Uncle Luke for was certainly a perk. He hadn't asked for a story this year. There was someone _else _he wanted to ask a story from.

"Ani?" his mother's voice asked, sounding slightly worried. "Have you heard a word I've been saying?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry Mom," he muttered. The concern in her brown eyes made him feel just a bit guilty, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. "I'm just tired, that's all." He almost slapped himself for saying that—it was a lie, and his mother always knew when he was lying.

But for now, at least, she seemed to accept his excuses, though her look told him that she wasn't convinced, and would expect a full explanation in the morning. For now, all she said was, "Well, perhaps you should go to bed then. I'll take care of everything out here."

"Thanks Mom," he said excitedly, forgetting to act tired as he jumped up from his seat to give her a fierce, warm hug, then practically ran for his bedroom before she could change her mind. Had he waited, he might have heard her snort quietly and mutter to herself, "When is that boy going to work up the courage to tell me about his grandfather?"


	2. I: Tales from Tatooine

**Chapter I: Tales from Tatooine**

"You shouldn't lie to your mother," said a voice almost as soon as he had closed the door.

Ignoring those words entirely, he practically launched himself at the shining form in the center of his room with an excited cry of "Granddad!" For a moment, he felt the strange sensation of falling through pure energy, and then his grandfather's form solidified beneath him, and he felt two strong arms around his shoulders, holding him close.

"I surprised you, didn't I, Granddad?" he gloated into the spirit's shoulder. It wasn't quite like holding a _normal _person—more like holding light in solid form. It was very strange, but not at all unpleasant.

"You certainly did," his grandfather was saying. "You'd better be careful, or next time you'll go right through me! And how would we explain _that _to your Uncle Luke?"

He pulled away from the hug just in time to see the spirit wink at him, and he couldn't help but laugh. His Uncle Luke was the only one who knew that his grandfather visited him on a fairly regular basis. Everyone knew, of course, that the spirit had visited on his eighth birthday last year, but he hadn't quite worked up the courage to tell his mother that it hadn't been the only time. He knew his grandfather disliked keeping this secret—in fact, he seemed to have a great dislike for secrets in general—but the spirit wanted him to be the one to tell. And he would; he just hadn't found the right opportunity yet.

"Happy birthday, squirt," his grandfather said with a mischievous grin, drawing him back to the present.

"Thanks!" he responded brightly. He momentarily considered calling Bail and Breha and telling them right now, if only so they could have a chance to spend time with their grandfather like he did, but he decided against it. It was his birthday: he was allowed to be selfish. "So, Granddad," he asked instead, "can I have a present?"

"I don't know," the spirit said, making a great show of pondering his grandson's request. But it was only a show—they both knew that he could never really refuse his namesake. "I suppose so," he said finally, "but only within reason. Not like last time."

"No, no, it's nothing like that," his grandson giggled, then turned his gaze back to the spirit with a hopeful smile. "This year I'd like a story for my birthday."

His grandfather winced, almost as though he was in pain, and after a long moment mumbled, "I thought your Uncle Luke already told you that story…"

"No, not that story," he said gently, realizing what his grandfather meant. _That_ story had been hard enough for his Uncle Luke to tell… "Just _a _story. Tell me your favorite story, from when you were a boy."

He had heard, somewhere, that other children's grandparents told them stories, and it had been his secret wish for some time now that his grandfather might do the same for him. At first, he had asked for stories of the past, and instead had learned exactly where his mother had gotten her stubbornness from. His grandfather was as unwilling to share the dark tales of his past as his mother was to hear them. The most he had gotten from the spirit was the cryptic remark that, "When you're older, perhaps I'll tell you, because it's extremely important, and I want you to learn from my mistakes. But you're not old enough to hear yet." He was almost certain that his Uncle Luke knew whatever dark tales his grandfather was referring to, but he was no more open with them than was his father.

Tonight, though, he wasn't interested in history—at least not chiefly. He simply wanted to hear his grandfather tell him a story, like a million other little boys across the galaxy.

But his request was followed by a long silence, and for a moment he didn't think his grandfather would respond. He wondered if he had said something wrong. Those sad blue eyes were very far away, separated from him by a vast distance of two feet and ten thousand lifetimes.

When the spirit did speak, his voice was gentle and so soft he might have mistaken it for a breath of wind. "All right," his grandfather said, "I will tell you the story that I loved best when I was your age. But I must warn you—it is not a happy story in the usual sense of the word. Tales from Tatooine are deeper and darker than most, and the joy in them does not come without pain. But it is a _good _story."

He nodded, noting the way his grandfather emphasized the word _good_, as though he meant more by it than simply a well-crafted tale.

"All right then," the spirit said, smiling at him and sitting beside him on the bed. "I'll apologize in advance if I'm not a very good story teller. I've never really tried before. But I'll try to remember the way my mother told it…"

He reached over and squeezed his grandfather's hand, then offered him a dazzling smile. "Don't worry, Granddad, I grew up on Threepio's stories. You can't possibly be worse than that."

His grandfather laughed out loud, a sound that he had loved ever since he first heard it. Privately, he considered it a personal goal to make his grandfather laugh as much as possible. "Watch it there, squirt," the spirit said with a smirk. "I built him, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, so I've heard," he said, affecting a bored air which he knew his grandfather would see through instantly. "So, are you going to tell me a story or not?"

The spirit snorted. "Well, you are demanding tonight, aren't you?" When the boy only nodded happily, he sighed and said, "All right then. This is the story of Talmar, and the little girl who saved him by her song…"


	3. II: The Lady of the Desert

**Chapter II: The Lady of the Desert**

_Once, a very long time ago on Tatooine, there lived a beautiful woman and her young daughter. The woman was sad, because she and her daughter were slaves in the household of the Hutt, and she knew that the new child she was about to bear would also be a slave. She would have given almost anything for her children to be free, but she had nothing to give, and her daughter would often hear her crying late at night. The other slaves called her foolish to waste her tears—in the desert, water is dearly bought indeed. They told her she must accept her lot, and not spend what little wealth she had in weeping._

_The time came for the woman to give birth to her second child, but she was very weak because of the hard labor she was forced to perform each day. And so, as the baby's life grew stronger, the mother's grew weaker, and when at last the child was born, she was dead._

_The child was a boy, and because he had been born from the death of his mother, the other slaves named him Talmar, which means the ill-fated one. He grew up in the slave quarters of the Hutt's palace, and he had only his sister to love. She raised him and took care of him, and when he was old enough, he made it his duty to take care of her. And for a while they were happy, in the way that only those born into brokenness can be happy._

_Talmar grew stronger each day, and he learned whatever the other slaves would teach him. He had a special love for animals, even the great monstrous creatures the Hutt kept for executions, and he soon found himself working as assistant beast-keeper in the lower dungeons of the Hutt's palace. The first time he saw an execution, he had to hide in the storage room with the animal feed, and even when he came out again, it was difficult to disguise his trembling. But he learned how to look away, and how not to see what was right in front of his eyes, and he never told his sister what he had seen._

* * *

"Granddad?" the boy asked, his eyes wide with horror. "Your mom really told you this story? Like this, I mean?"

The spirit favored him with a look that was impossible to describe. He thought, perhaps, that it was some combination of sorrow, amusement, and an old, old pain that had never quite healed. But there was something else to it, too—an ineffable quality that made him shiver, though not from fear.

"Yes," his grandfather said, softly. "She did. But it's not like what you're thinking. It was horrible, yes, but we saw things like that. Even a child couldn't be really innocent on Tatooine." To the boy's surprise, the spirit's eyes twinkled, and he even managed a small smile. "Well, not as a slave anyway. I'm told your Uncle Luke managed it quite well."

The boy laughed softly, but his eyes were still questioning.

"I'm sorry, Ani." His grandfather's voice was very gentle, with a certain brokenness to it that made his eyes sting the way they did when he was about to cry. "I didn't mean to upset you. I know some lighter stories, if you'd like one of them instead."

"No," he said, suddenly very determined. "No, I want to hear this one. I don't think you would have started it if it wasn't _good_." He put a special emphasis on that last word, wanting his grandfather to know that he remembered what the spirit had said before he began his story. "And besides," he added, managing a genuine smile this time, "I'm curious now."

His grandfather laughed at that and reached over to ruffle his hair. "Well, all right then, squirt. Now, let's see…"

* * *

_Then one day the Hutt called Talmar's sister before him, and he ordered her to dance for him. The girl was terrified, because she knew what would happen to her if she displeased the Hutt, but she was even more frightened because Talmar was there, and she did not want him to see whatever happened. But there was nothing else she could do, and so she swallowed her fear, and she began to dance._

_Talmar's sister was a beautiful dancer._

_The Hutt demanded that she dance closer, and when she would not, he ordered her fed to the beasts._

_Talmar was devastated. In all the world, his sister was the only person he truly loved, and now she was gone. The other slaves kept apart from him—a man who has lost one he loves carries ill-fortune about him like a cloak._

_They called him Abidoon, for the look on his face spoke of death._

_He took to brooding in the darkness, and he spoke less and less to those around him. His sleep was filled with tortured dreams, and his waking with the ache of solitude. And in his brooding, he remembered the ancient tales of Tatooine, the ones which parents told in brief to frighten their disobedient children, and in full to frighten one another._

_He remembered the tales of the Lady of the Desert._

_She was said to be a goddess of the Tuskens, fickle and cruel as the desert itself, and just as deadly. It was whispered that the Tuskens sacrificed prisoners to her, though no one had ever proven such a thing. And the darkest legends said that she would grant a man whatever he asked for, in exchange for his soul._

_Talmar knew that it was only a legend, but there was a part of him that could not help wondering if it might be true. And so, late one night, he snuck out of the Hutt's palace. He knew that if he were caught, he would be killed, but he did not much care. And he was not caught._

_He wandered out into the desert for three days, and when his water ran out and he lay at the point of death in the sand, the Lady of the Desert came to him._

_She offered to save his life in exchange for the price that she always asked, but he just laughed at her. He told the Lady that he did not much care for his life, and she would have to promise him something better. He wanted his sister back._

_The Lady seemed to grow cold, as the desert does at night—a deep, piercing cold that speaks of fear, and of deadlier things. Talmar shook, but he made no attempt to escape. The Lady spoke again, and her voice was rough as a sand storm that strips the skin from the bones._

"_There can be no return to life for that wretched girl," the Lady said coldly. "There can be only vengeance."_

_Memory boiled up within Talmar like a pitch, and he said, "Then grant me vengeance." _

_And he asked the Lady to grant him power over all who had ever hurt him, all whom he hated. He asked, and she laughed. And she named her price._

_Talmar felt a chill wind at his back, like the sigh of the ghosts that call in the desert, but he was angry, and his heart was broken, and he paid them no mind. With burning eyes he said to the Lady, "I will do whatever you ask."_

* * *

The spirit fell silent, gazing out over the city with dark, haunted eyes. His grandson felt the weight of the past as a thick darkness in the room, bleak and almost physically painful. He shivered and reached for the spirit's hand.

"Granddad?" he whispered, his voice muffled in the dark. When the spirit did not move, he squeezed the hand he held between his own two small hands. It seemed, of a sudden, much colder than usual. "Granddad, what is it?" he asked, with just a twinge of fear in his voice.

But the twinge was enough. His grandfather's haunted eyes snapped away from the brightly lit skyline of Coruscant's night and turned to him, warm and apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ani," the spirit said for the second time that night. His eyes were very sad, and the boy found himself wondering if spirits could cry. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just…remembering."

"I know," the boy said, giving his grandfather's hand another squeeze. "But you went to someplace very dark just now, Granddad." He favored the spirit with a gentle smile and added, very softly, "You don't belong there, you know."

His grandfather swallowed thickly and shook his head, banishing the memory of darkness. "Yes," he said softly, reaching out with a shaking hand to ruffle the boy's hair and offering a warm, sad smile. "Thank you."

He smiled eagerly in return, lunging toward his grandfather with an impulsive hug. The spirit laughed, catching him up in arms of solid light and soon tickling him into submission. The boy's laughter rang out clear and bright in response, and when he could breathe again, he said, "See Granddad? It's not so dark after all."

His grandfather actually grinned at him. "No, Ani, it's not." The spirit regarded him very intently and added, in a voice both softer and deeper than usual, "Always remember that."

"I will," he said, still smiling, but with an edge of determination to his words. When his grandfather used that voice, it was always something important.

The spirit let out a long, slow sigh, as though he were relishing the simple act of breathing. The boy considered asking for a different story—he did not want to hurt his grandfather—but he thought that now, perhaps, the story needed to be told, for both their sakes. He did not want to leave Talmar in darkness.

So he bit his lip and said very softly, "Granddad, can we finish the story now?"

And the spirit bowed his head in silent assent.


	4. III: A Child Is Given

**Chapter III: A Child Is Given**

_Talmar returned to the palace of the Hutt and found everything changed. No longer was he a slave. The people looked at him with respect to his face, and with fear after he had passed by. No one seemed to know that he was only Talmar, the assistant beast-keeper of the Hutt's monsters. They treated him as though he was someone of great position, and he had anything that he desired._

_Finally he came before the Hutt himself. The memory of pain sang in his blood, and the Hutt cowered before his anger. He was surprised, at first, because the Hutt was the greatest power on Tatooine. But he remembered the promise of the Lady of the Desert._

_She had promised him power. He knew now that she had kept her promise._

_The Hutt blubbered before him, and Talmar reveled in the pleas of his former master. He remembered the way his sister had stood frightened but unyielding in the face of her own fate, and he looked again at the Hutt, her murderer, with cold distain._

_He considered feeding the Hutt to his own beasts, but decided against it. That was the death his sister had died, and by so doing she had hallowed it. So instead, he had the Hutt taken deep into the desert, and left as an offering to the Lady._

_Let him be the first._

_When the Hutt was gone, Talmar began his reign. But he was no less cruel than his former master had been, for none but his sister had ever shown him kindness, and he was determined to offer kindness to none. He ruled the people with an iron fist, and he punished terribly all who had ever treated him harshly. And no one could stand against him, for the Lady made him strong, and none could defy her._

_But one day, after many years had passed, a young girl was brought before him. She was only seven years old, dressed in tattered rags, and she carried with her a flute of simple make._

_Bowing before him, the child asked if she might play for him. He very nearly refused her, but something that he could not name stopped him. It had been years since Talmar had heard music of any kind, but he remembered that, in a far distant world long since lost to him, his sister had always loved music._

_So Talmar ordered the girl to play._

_The song was simple and poignant, an old desert song. Its wordless melody spoke of love and loss and the long, heart-breaking days of solitude that follow. Yet for all that, it was beautiful. It reminded him of the songs his sister used to sing, songs which she said their mother had sung, in the days before his birth._

_He had not thought of her in years._

_So when the tune was finished, and the little girl bowed again before him, he asked her name._

* * *

The night grew still, the last echoes of his grandfather's words fluttering away like dead leaves on a non-existent breeze. Faint strains of garish music drifted past his bedroom window like wraiths, and for the second time that night, he shivered in the sudden chill, though not this time from fear. He felt as though he were on the cusp of a revelation, one that would make clear all that he had ever wondered about. And he found, now that he stood so close to that long-coveted knowledge, that he was almost afraid to reach out and take it.

He wondered if it would shatter when he tried.

Beside him, his grandfather sat ten million parsecs away, his eyes gazing into a past that perhaps never was, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists and unclenching again.

It was not the darkness that troubled his grandfather this time, he sensed, but rather the weight of shattered possibility. He felt as though they sat together in his room surrounded by an infinite number of potential worlds, each one now no more than a might-have-been.

The thickness of unrealized possibilities was suffocating.

He reached over and took his grandfather's hand in his own, and asked the question that burned in the air between them like a brand, encompassing all other questions. He felt, somehow, that if he could only know the answer to this one question, he would understand.

"What was the girl's name, Granddad?"

And his grandfather looked at him with haunted eyes, and whispered, "Her name was Leia."

And he understood.


	5. IV: A Song for the Fallen

**Chapter IV: A Song for the Fallen**

_So it was that Leia came to live with Talmar, for having once heard the music which he had so long forgotten, he was unwilling to be without it. And Leia was a gentle-hearted girl, and pitied the tyrant, though she saw all his cruelties, and her eyes were dark and sad._

_Many times she would attempt to save his prisoners by her pleading, and once or twice she succeeded, though more often she gained only Talmar's anger. But she never spoke ill of him, and he was surprised to realize that she truly did not hate him. He knew that everyone else did, but he had never much cared for the opinions of others._

_The little girl, though, did not hate him, and she never judged him. She simply played her gentle tunes to still his tortured sleep. And as time passed, he came to love that music, and the little girl who played it, but he did not understand what it meant. He had forgotten how to love._

_And the little girl was very sad, because she knew that Talmar was suffering, even though he did not know it himself. Every night, before he called her to play her music, she would sit outside on the steps of his palace and look up at the stars. Sometimes she would talk to them, pretending they were her friends, for she had no one else. And sometimes she even dreamed that they answered._

_She would ask them to give Talmar something that would make him happy, so that he would not hurt anyone any more._

_And so time passed. The stars did not answer Leia, but she never gave up asking._

_When a year and a day had gone by since Leia came to him, the Lady of the Desert appeared to Talmar, as was her custom. Long ago Talmar had sworn to do whatever she asked of him, and many times she had held him to that oath._

_He had never refused her._

_And so she demanded that he offer up to her the little girl with the flute, for the music was hateful to her._

_Now Talmar was shaken—he realized that he did not want to lose the comfort of the little girl's music. But more startling was his realization that he did not want the girl to die._

_She reminded him very much of his sister._

_But he had sworn himself to the Lady of the Desert, and he would not renounce his oath. So he called Leia before him. And the Lady laughed._

* * *

The spirit fell silent, and this time his grandson made no attempt to rouse him from the past. He remembered his Uncle Luke's story, the terrible moments of uncertainty, the knowledge of coming death. And he knew that his grandfather was thinking of the same thing.

"He laughed, too," the spirit said, quite suddenly. His voice was loud in the all-consuming quiet of the room. "I just realized that. He laughed."

His grandson remained silent, uncertain how to respond.

"I could never be sure who he was really laughing at," said the spirit. His voice was strangely stilted, as though he spoke from somewhere far away. He seemed to have forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. "I think maybe he was laughing at me."

"If he was, Granddad, I think maybe he laughed too soon," the boy said at last.

His grandfather looked at him, and there was a strange twinkle behind the sorrow in his eyes. "Yes. Perhaps he did." The spirit gave him a rueful grin. "But I thought we weren't telling _that _story. I thought I was just telling an old Tatooine legend. Humph."

The boy smirked. "Something like that."

"Well," his grandfather muttered, "I suppose I'd better finish it, then."

And the boy nodded eagerly.

"But Leia was not afraid, though she did cry a little," the spirit continued, then added, with a smile of fond remembrance, "And that's the part where my mother always told me, 'You see, Ani, it's all right to cry when something bad happens. Even the bravest people cry.'"

His grandson smiled. "Yes. Uncle Luke told me you cried, at the end."

"Well…" the spirit said slowly, surprise evident on his face, "that isn't exactly what I meant. Your Uncle Luke was the brave one then, not me. But!" he added quickly, holding up a finger to forestall his grandson's protests, "it's true all the same. And so Leia cried a little, even though she was brave, but she didn't try to escape…"

* * *

_And as Talmar drew the knife to strike, the little girl smiled gently at him and raised her flute to her lips. And she began to play._

_The Lady shrieked, once, a high and horrible sound, and the flute shattered. But something in Talmar's heart broke with it, and the knife fell from his hand. And though he knew not why he did, he straightened and dared to look upon the Lady in her wrath, and he said, "All that I possess and all those I rule you have, and my very soul also, but this girl you shall not have."_

_Then the Lady laughed—she had a terrible laugh!—and she stretched forth her hand, and the girl began to die. She withered, as the tender shoots of new growth dry up and fall in the scorching of the desert sun, and she fell, though the Lady had never touched her._

_But Talmar knew himself at last, and he struggled forward against the implacable will of the Lady, though the withering that broke the girl fell upon him also. But with the last of his strength he took the knife and drove it home in the Lady's breast._

_And now she herself seemed to wither and crumble and to blow away, and with a sound like the roaring of sand in the wild desert storms, she was gone._

_But Talmar lay where he had fallen. With great effort, Leia rose and went to him, and she cradled his head in her lap and wept for him. He looked at her, but he said only, "I am not worth your tears." Still she would not listen, and she continued to weep, gazing at him with the sad, adoring eyes of a child. And she sang for him, a song his sister used to sing when he was very small._

_And Talmar died._

_The Lady of the Desert was gone, and her blessing-curse clung no more to him. And in time, everything that had been done through her power passed away. But Leia remained. And she helped all those whom Talmar had hurt, and they built a new life, and for a long time afterward, Tatooine was happy and peaceful._

* * *

"The End!" the spirit finished with false cheerfulness. His grandson knew how much it had cost him to come to that end.

All was silent for a long moment, and then the boy squeezed his grandfather's hand and said gently, "You were right, Granddad. It was a _good_ story."

"Do you think so?" the spirit asked, as though a good deal more than the quality of the story were in question. And the boy knew that it was.

"Yes, Granddad," he said, almost reverently. "I do think so."

"Well, I'm…glad that you enjoyed it," said the spirit, rather awkwardly. They both knew that he had been talking about something quite different.

"I did," his grandson said, giving the spirit a quick, energetic hug. "Thank you!"

The spirit laughed, and tousled the boy's hair, and after tickling him into submission, finally convinced him it was time to go to sleep.

But the boy had one last question.

"Granddad?"

His grandfather gave a longsuffering sigh, and muttered, "Yes?"

"You named my mom for her, didn't you? Leia. The girl in the story."

And the spirit said, simply, "Yes."


	6. Epilogue: True Stories

**Epilogue: True Stories**

"_You like to tell true stories, don't you?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes, I like to tell stories that are true."_

_Then he asked, "After you have finished your true stories sometime, why don't you make up a story and the people to go with it? Only then will you understand what happened and why."_

--from _A River Runs Through It_, by Norman Maclean

* * *

The spirit waited until he was certain the boy was asleep, then he turned and whispered conspiratorially towards the door, "You may as well come in now."

There was a faint, embarrassed shuffling, and then the door swished open, and Leia stepped in softly. The garish light of Coruscant's midnight glinted gently off her tears.

"You see?" said Anakin, his voice strangely tender, "I told him that even the bravest people cry sometimes."

Leia laughed, though it came out more of a choked sob. She rubbed furiously at her eyes. "You knew I was there the whole time, didn't you?" she muttered. But she was not really angry. She found to her surprise that she couldn't be.

The spirit simply nodded and gave her a shy, apologetic smile. "It's funny," he said, in a way that indicated it really wasn't, at least not in the literal sense of the word. "That was always my favorite story as a child. I never thought I would live it."

Leia simply nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

"No matter how hard we try," her father was saying, "the stories get mixed up with our own lives."

"Maybe they've always been inseparable," she whispered.

He looked at her sharply, surprise shining in his eyes, and she found that, for perhaps the first time ever, she was not afraid of him.

He was only a man, after all. And they were part of the same story. She found a strange amount of comfort in that.

She looked up into her father's eyes and dared to love him, if only for a moment.

"He was right," she said. "It was a good story."

He bowed his head, accepting her praise and her pain. When he looked up again, Leia was still gazing at him with bright brown eyes.

"Thank you," she said. "…Father."


End file.
